


Royal Deluxe

by sharkduck



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Boxers AU, I'm fixin' to rectify that right this now, M/M, There ain't enough Muriel love in the world, au - modern day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkduck/pseuds/sharkduck
Summary: Three Russian immigrants, a boxing gym, a new face, chapters named after lyrics, and fate pulling them all together.What could possibly go wrong?





	Royal Deluxe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new person joins the gym, slang is of course thrown around, Elias doesn't walk away happy. The story begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 **Mudak** : lit. "Asshole." Used here as a term of endearment.
> 
> 2 **Rope-a-dope/Rope-a-doping** : A defensive strategy in which a contender allows their opponent to fatigue themselves with non-injuring offensive moves, thereby giving the contender an advantage.
> 
> 3 **Dolben** : An obstinate idiot who goes about doing something despite obvious failure. Almost exclusively used by Portia as a term of endearment.
> 
> 4 **Nishchebrod** : An archaic and obsolete word for a poor person.

"Ey, Pasha," Elias shifts his arm in its sling, uncomfortable with the lack of movement as he and Portia watch the various denizens of the gym dutifully go about their training regimens (some more dutifully than others), "see that big hulking _mudak_ 1 over there?"

Portia's eyes glance to where Elias inclines his head, settling on the well-muscled back of a newcomer whose posture is terrible, and so are his punches -- he seems almost shy as Grigori shouts at him for the tenth time to _hit the damned bag, you hulking fuck_ ; he's too gentle for this place. She knows who he is immediately.

"Who, Muriel?" Her lips twitch up, and so do her eyes; Elias is staring with a look that screams predation -- she glances briefly to his immobilized arm, "you aren't thinking of _fighting_ him, are you?" Portia, for one, would actually love to see that, if only because of a morbid curiosity as to how Elias could manage to win that fight; he may be fast, agile, and merciless, but Muriel is 6'10'' and big as a boulder. She's unsure if the usual rope-a-doping 2 would be as effective against a man who looks as though he's made entirely out of concrete. All it would take is one stray swing to sully Elias's perfect record. Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted by his short, barking laughter.

"Fuck no," he says, (Portia is only slightly disappointed -- she quite likes her dear friend alive and well, after all) "I _am_ thinking he could totally get it though." Elias isn't watching to see Portia's flabbergasted face.

"Dude. You're kidding, right?" Elias doesn't respond, too busy ogling Muriel's backside to do so; he definitely isn't kidding. Portia elbows him gently in the rib cage to get his attention.

"Elias, you're half his size! He could split you in half." Elias's eyebrows shoot upwards as his grin splits his face, dimples deepening with every moment his smile grows. Portia's lip curls, and she smacks him on the arm.

" _Gross_."

"Hey!" He's still grinning that insufferable grin, "I'm just saying, if your brother comes to you and asks why--"

"-- ew! Don't you dare!"

"-- tell him it's the new guy's fault!"

" _Ugh_ ," Portia gags theatrically, wafting the air around Elias's face as if she could brush that shit-eating smile away with her hand, "you're nasty. First you hit on my brother, now you're thirsty for the actual, literal giant. Cease and desist."

"Not my fault he's a tall glass of water." There's a beat of silence that hangs in the air, before Portia manages to speak again, keeping her eyes trained on Grigori the entire time, watching his raggedy wool flat cap bob to and fro from boxer to boxer, always followed by some kind of shouting -- English or Russian, it never mattered; his voice is always distinguishable from the sounds of a busy gym.

"That was two puns at once and it was two puns too many -- I might just kick you," she pauses, "have you told him yet?" Elias readjusts his arm again and makes a conscious effort to look anywhere but at Portia, pawing at the scuffed concrete floors with the toe of his sneaker. She frowns, and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Elias--"

"I'm-- I'm working on it. Mostly I'm trying to find a way to break the news to him without making him angry." Portia's laugh is sharp and without humor.

"Good luck, _dolben._ 3 There are two things that are impossible in the world: not dying, and not making Grigori angry -- you're stalling."

"Yeah," he runs his hand down his face and sighs, "yeah, you're right. Better tell him now than have him find out later... I hate when you're right about things." Portia merely gives a comforting pat to his back, affectionately nudging him towards Grigori as she turns on her heel to leave the gym.

"I'll wait out in the car. Try not to die?"

"No promises. If I'm not back in ten minutes call the cops." She leaves him with that, and a lingering feeling of dread as he waits by the door for Grigori to make his rounds. The old man seems to take forever on the new guy, pushing and prodding, searching for a switch to make him less afraid of the bag; it doesn't seem to be working. Finally, with several exasperated movements, Grigori gives Muriel a break, sweeping his hands in front of him as if to shoo Muriel into a corner. It's an exercise in beating a dead horse -- Muriel is already retreating to the safety of the sides of the gym, attempting to meld into the ugly white walls. Elias notes, with a degree of shock, that he's surprisingly effective at disappearing, despite being built like a mountain and several varying shades darker than the paint he's blending into.

Grigori finally manages to catch Elias's eye from the other end of the gym, and he almost smiles -- almost, until he notices Elias's arm suspended uselessly in a blue sling, and the oh-so-familiar frown returns, settling into the wrinkles on his face like an old friend. No one gets in his way as he cuts across the gym floor to stand, stony-faced, arms crossed, in front of Elias by the door. Neither of them speak, and Elias takes the time to take in Grigori's face, as if to gauge his reaction.

(Which is unnecessary -- Grigori's reactions to everything are always exactly the same: yelling, often with good, if misguided, intentions.)

His nose sits awkwardly on his face, almost too big for his head, and crooked in several directions from decades of not being quick enough to avoid that punch; at one point, he might have been classically, almost blandly, Russian -- a square face, a heavy brow, high cheekbones -- but years spent living a hard life have made his face sag. His jowls shake when he talks, not unlike a turkey, and no matter how much he shaves there will always be wispy white hairs on his chin, and his eyebrows are comically large and constantly furrowed; none of these things hide his eyes, dark blue and constantly narrowed out of muscle memory from decades of squinting disapprovingly at others. His hat also does a poor job of hiding them; it's an ugly thing, ratty and somewhere between green and that specific color of pallid gray that things often take on when they age poorly. He thinks it was plaid at some point, but it's hard to tell if those varying shades of brown are patterns or unfortunate stains.

"What the fuck is this?" Grigori's voice isn't angry, _per se_ , but there's definitely a small quantity of displeasure in there, amid unnecessary volume; Elias replies with a noncommittal shrug, pretending to be unfazed.

"A sling."

"I see that, moron, why is your _arm_ in there?"

"Sprained shoulder."

"Oh no." Grigori at least makes an attempt to not look horrified; any arm injury untreated properly is a potentially career-ending threat, "Elias, what have you done?"

"Kids at the bus stop were kicking a hobo around -- I couldn't just stand there, Grigori."

"Oh for-- what are you going to do? _Amuse_ Lucio to death in the ring? You can't fight with a sprained fucking shoulder, Elias."

"I wasn't planning to." The revelation hits Grigori hard enough to almost physically knock him from his feet, and he takes a small step backwards, as if he'd been slapped. There's betrayal in his expression, but Elias seems more upset between the two of them; he isn't looking Grigori in the eyes, his remaining hand stuffed firmly into the pocket of his hoodie. Guilt eats away at him. He has never bowed out of a match before, no matter the odds stacked against him, but even he's sensible enough to see that a sprained shoulder will not heal overnight. Even then, two weeks is not nearly enough time to retrain his arm to be strong enough for boxing again.

"I've got some cashed stashed away," Elias says, his voice oddly quiet, "I'll pay you back the entrance fee."

"It's not about the damned entrance fee; Elias, you can't keep doing this to yourself. One of these days you're going to break something you're not going to be able to come back from. What then? All that talk about going pro, all those dreams -- kaput. Done. And you'll be a high school dropout for nothing." The words hurt. But they aren't untrue. Elias doesn't deign to respond, knowing that nothing he'd say could possibly make the situation any better. Grigori only pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Next time you see some kids kicking around a _nishchebrod_ ,"4 his voice is disturbingly soft for a man who spends ninety-nine percent of his time shouting, "think about calling the cops first, alright?" He walks away then, leaving Elias to his thoughts and a nasty taste in his mouth -- he entertains the idea of washing it down with strong spirits later, but that will have to wait. Elias lingers in the gym for a moment, the smell of sweat and the sounds of punching bags rattling on chains comforting his welling anxiety, before he turns on his heel and walks out the way he came.

He doesn't notice the keen observer on the other side of the gym, boring holes into his back as he lets the door to the garage swing shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you muchly for reading!! comments and kudos are very appreciated and fuel my godless soul!


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